


Without a Coat

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cuddles, Gen, Porthos makes tea, Weepy Cuddles to be Precise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis needs a good cry. Porthos is as cuddly as ever.</p><p>Oneshot set at the end of <i>Honest Songs</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Coat

He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to, but Porthos held his breath as he opened Aramis’ door. Tonight, as usual, the curtains that hung over the window were pulled wide open, and the light was more than enough to clearly see the man hunched up on his bed, staring blankly at his knees.

Porthos shut the door carefully, breathing out. He waited for Aramis to look up, but Aramis didn’t-- still didn’t look up at the sound of footsteps as Porthos made his way over to the bed.

Only when Porthos pulled back the blankets did Aramis react. He raised his head, blinking up with such sadness in his eyes that Porthos’ heart tightened painfully in his chest.

“Hey,” Porthos whispered.

“Hey.”

Porthos thought idly through all the things he could say: how gloomy Aramis had seemed at supper-- no, how gloomy he’d seemed for months now-- how worried they all were, or even something useless like making sure that he was warm enough. But in the end he said none of these things. Instead he slipped under the blankets and stretched out, cracking his knees and ankles, making himself comfortable. Then he settled his arms behind his head.

“Remember our bed at your brother’s?”

“Mm.”

“I miss that bed sometimes. Once in a while I’ll wake up an’ think I’m in it. D’you ever do that? Wake up an’ think you’re in a different bed?”

“Mm.”

“I loved that bed. It kind of put me off, the first few weeks there-- an’ that’s no offense t’you, but I was so, y’know-- so much had happened that I just wanted a little space to meself. An’ even lyin’ down t’sleep, you an’ me were in each other’s pockets. But I got used to it. I liked it, before long. Made me feel safe. An’ then we moved here an’-- you remember. First week I snuck into your room two or three times. Yeah?”

Porthos was grinning. But when he chanced a look up at Aramis he found his face tighter than it had been.

“Sorry,” Porthos sighed, feeling a little useless. Not a night for nostalgia, of course, though all he’d been hoping for was half of a smile. Instead he opened his arms, wiggled his fingers. “C’mere.”

“What?” Aramis’ voice was scratchy like old hay.

“ _What_ what?” Porthos mocked, gently. “C’mere so I can hold you, idiot.”

“Oh.”

It was funny, not to mention a little sad, how Aramis still needed things explained to him at times, but once he was convinced he wasted no time in crawling to Porthos and flumping down against his chest. Porthos wrapped both arms around him and held him close. Aramis spent a moment arranging himself, laying his head just how he wanted it in the crook of Porthos’ arm, snuffling a little while he did so. Then he went perfectly still.

For a moment Porthos thought the man might be dozing-- then there came the realization that something wet was soaking through the collar of his nightshirt. With a quiet sigh, he began to rub Aramis’ back. Beneath his fingers Aramis’ shoulders gave a gentle hitch, and then he began to weep in earnest.

Porthos kissed a curl of hair, inky black in the moonlight. Aramis really didn’t cry all that often, especially not in the company of others; when it happened, then, Porthos knew that he truly needed it.

“s’all right, Ar,” he murmured, keeping him close. “You’ll feel better after a good cry.”

A cry now and then was a healthful thing, Porthos had always thought. Like cleaning one’s boots or going to confession, it wasn’t needed every week, nor even every month so long as all was well, but with some degree of routine, to scrape away all the muck that had built up over time.

But this felt like something different. This felt like Aramis breaking apart right there in his arms, like he was a clay cup dropped onto a hard stone floor and like the moment that he shattered had been drawn out to last an eternity. Aramis’ weeping rose before long to something harsher, noisier. From within the enclave of Porthos’ arms came a rending, low-pitched keen, and Porthos bundled him closer.

But not ten seconds later Aramis was scrambling upright, sobbing and coughing. His hand was pressed to his chest as though he couldn’t catch his breath, lips loosing droplets of spittle as he pulled desperately for air. Porthos sat too, rubbed his back while he wheezed harshly.

“Hey now,” Porthos soothed. “Ease up, love, or you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis choked out. There wasn’t much space between them but Porthos closed it anyway, pulling Aramis into his arms and holding him upright as he sobbed.

“s’all right, love,” Porthos whispered. “I’ve gotcha.”

Aramis nodded his head furiously, pressing upwards into Porthos’ arms until he was practically on top of him. Porthos laid his hands flat on Aramis’ hitching back.

“I’ve gotcha,” he said again, praying his words would calm Aramis even a little-- praying he would manage to stay calm himself. “Gotcha, love, I’ve gotcha--”

And, little by little the weight on Porthos’ shoulder increased, until at last Aramis was sagged fully against him, hiccupping now more than sobbing. Porthos craned his neck to peer down at the man. Aramis’ eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and would not meet his own; at a loss for anything else to do, Porthos kissed his forehead.

“Sorry.” Aramis’ voice was little more than a croak.

Porthos kissed him again. “Don’t you dare.”

Aramis said nothing to this, but tucked up closer against Porthos’ chest. Porthos grabbed a blanket and pulled it around them both.

For a while they simply sat this way, and though Porthos felt the occasional tear drip down the collar of his nightshirt, Aramis was silent and mostly calm. Whatever he needed to say, he would not say tonight, it seemed. But just when Porthos was about to suggest they lie down and try to sleep, Aramis sucked in a creaky breath and whispered, “I dream about him.”

Porthos laid his head atop Aramis’. “You dream about him?”

“I dream but-- it doesn’t go away when I’m awake. I have this a-awful feeling, Porthos, that he’s out there a-and he’s l-lost. It m-makes me s-sick--”

“Hey,” Porthos soothed, for that was all it had taken for Aramis to weep in earnest once more. “Hey, ‘sall right, Aramis, you don’t hafta talk until you’re ready.”

“No, I--” Aramis cut off with a harsh, wet swallow. “It’s with me whether I talk about it or not. I-- I can’t stop thinking it. I see him that morning-- Porthos, the last time I saw his face, he was scared. He was so scared and-- s-sick--”

He stopped again, forced himself to catch his breath. His cheeks were nothing short of flooded, and he mopped at them with the sleeve of his nightshirt.

“I know,” Aramis rasped, after a minute. “I know he’s not. He’s not out there. But I can’t _get it out of my head_. And when I see him he doesn’t h-have his coat on. Porthos, he doesn’t have his coat on!”

“He’s not out there anywhere,” Porthos said firmly, as Aramis pulled back a little and rooted in the blankets for a handkerchief. “He’s in the next room over, sound asleep, not wearin’ a coat an’ possibly not even under his quilt because it’s June in southern France an’ it’s plenty warm enough.”

Aramis laughed in the middle of blowing his nose, the result of which was a horrible wet gurgle that made Porthos laugh in turn. 

“I know,” Aramis murmured. Fresh tears ran down his cheeks, streaming along the curves of his nose, falling onto the chest of his nightshirt. Then, with a massive sigh, he wiped his face again and finally seemed to stop crying.

Gently, carefully, Porthos reached across Aramis and turned his face towards him; in the light from the window he was all greys and blues, and the leftover trails of his tears shone silver. “‘sall right,” Porthos whispered, and then pressed his lips to the corner of Aramis’ mouth. Aramis sank into the kiss, closing his eyes, breathing slowly, until at long last he broke away to hide his face in Porthos’ neck. Porthos settled his lips on Aramis’ brow instead.

Aramis snuggled up close, full weight once more against Porthos’ chest; the sound of his breathing was noisy, congested, but at last Porthos was satisfied that he had calmed. And indeed, when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse but steady.

“I had a dream one time, about Ollie growing up. I saw him ten, twenty, taking a wife, going off to live in a city somewhere-- it wasn’t a bad life I dreamt for him. But I woke up so upset I remember I went and sat in his room for a while.”

His hand was stroking Porthos’ belly absently. Porthos himself stayed silent.

“Ten years was more than I expected, or deserved. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. And if Athos is happy now, if he’s happier than he was before, then all of this was worth it. I just-- it ended so quickly, Porthos. And I just want to-- say goodbye the right way, if I have to say goodbye. I want to-- brush his hair and wash his face and button his coat. And see him smile again before I have to send him off. I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. And I know he’s not gone, but-- he is. And I need to.”

“So do you?”

Aramis sniffled. “Do I what?”

“When you see him. Do you say goodbye?”

Aramis sat up then, frowning up at Porthos as though he’d spoken another language. “No,” he murmured. “I just sort of-- no.”

“I think you need to,” Porthos replied quietly. “I think the next time you close your eyes an’ see him all alone, you need to go up an’ give him a big hug an’ a kiss. Then in the morning you need a good hug from Athos. D’Artagnan too, while we’re at it. An’ when harvest is done you need to write your brother to come an’ visit, an’ tell him everything, an’ let him be there for you too. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right.” Porthos smiled. “Sleep now?”

Aramis winced. “I think I’m a little too-- I don’t know.”

“All right. Tea?”

Aramis nodded. “Pepperm--”

“Peppermint. I know. Cried yourself into a bellyache-- don’t think I couldn’t tell.”

Aramis’ smile was sad and shaky, but the stars themselves were in his eyes. “Porthos-- you and I--”

“ _Shh_ , don’t finish that,” Porthos murmured. He knelt back on the bed, pulled Aramis’ head forward, and kissed him between the eyes. “You’ll make _me_ cry. You an’ me, that’s the last stop on the ride, love. Don’t you worry ‘bout that, not one bit.”

Apparently Aramis took this to heart because he wasted no time in nuzzling against Porthos’ chest with a groan. “Don’t feel well,” he whimpered, and Porthos laughed.

“I know, Ar. But if you want that tea you’re gonna have t’let me up. Try t’lie down, yeah? I’ll be back in a tick.”

After another moment’s pause, Aramis did as he was told, detaching himself from Porthos and sinking back to the mattress in a heap. Porthos tugged the blankets over him and slipped out.

He half expected to meet either Athos or d’Artagnan in the hall; the walls between their rooms were not thick, and he had little doubt that one or both of them had been woken by the sound of Aramis’ grief. But if they had been, they did not intrude. Porthos went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of peppermint tea, and carried it back to Aramis uninterrupted.

Aramis was on his side. He’d bunched the blankets in his arms like he was holding someone to him, and his eyes were closed. Porthos knelt down beside him and put a hand to his cheek.

“Tea,” he murmured. Aramis’ eyes blinked open and he smiled, then pushed himself upright and reached out for the cup. Porthos crawled back into bed as he sipped it slowly. For a few minutes there was no sound but this, then came the gentle clunk of the cup against the table, and Aramis let out a stuffy-nosed sigh.

Warm fingers found Porthos’ cheek. Aramis brought their faces together and kissed Porthos gently, no longer tasting of tears now but of peppermint and honey. This seemed to cost the last bit of strength within him. When they broke apart he slumped wordlessly down to his pillow and closed his eyes again.

Porthos spread the blankets over them both. Then he lay down beside Aramis, gathering their hands together between their chests. “Sleep now?” he prompted.

Aramis made a small, drowsy noise. “I can’t breathe through my nose,” he huffed.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you snored,” Porthos teased, knowing Aramis could hear his smile even if he couldn’t see it. “Rest. You’re done in, love. Tomorrow mornin’ you’re gonna have a good lie-in while the rest of us see to things, all right?”

Aramis yawned a little. “All right, _mi amor_.”

“You agree so easily when you’re sleepy.”

Aramis met Porthos’ eyes for a moment, but looked away again before speaking. “I agree easily because I trust you. Stay with me?”

“As if that was a question.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis said suddenly, squeezing Porthos’ hands. “I know I’m a mess. I try to pull back, and see it from the broader perspective, but--”

“Aramis.”

“What?”

“It’s gotta be one in the mornin’.”

“And I’ve kept you up--”

“You can keep me up whenever you need to, love. But if you’re gonna keep me up so you can apologize, I’d jus’ as soon sleep.”

Aramis drew a thumb across Porthos’ fingers. Then, in one unexpectedly smooth motion, he rolled from one side to the other, fitting his back up to Porthos’ chest. Head now on Porthos’ shoulder, he pulled his pillow into his arms.

Porthos bit back a sigh, knowing what they were both remembering: those early days, those sleepless nights, of Porthos cradling Aramis, cradling Olivier. He tugged Aramis a little closer.

But Aramis’ body grew gradually heavier in his arms, until at last he realized that the man was finally sleeping. His heart was not soothed, and far from unbroken, but at least he was resting.

Porthos slipped his hand over Aramis’ fingers, clutching around the downy pillow at his chest. And even as he drifted off himself, he held on tightly.

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I want to thank everybody who commented/left plot bunnies on my last post. Ever since I finished posting _Honest Songs_ , I've had a genuinely nasty case of writer's block, but I am plodding along as best as I can. Just please know that even if I don't fill your prompt/don't fill it quickly, it doesn't mean I don't love it!
> 
> This was a bit hard to do both because of how stuck I feel at the moment and also because of how much pain Aramis is really in. That's also why this story sort of had to be from Porthos' perspective, because even though Aramis will let Athos and d'Artagnan comfort him, I think Porthos is the only one who gets to see him, like, _ugly cry_ , and that's honestly something that had to happen at some point.
> 
> Anyway, a heads up that I do currently have two more pieces in the works for this 'verse. They may take a little while to post, so I hope you enjoyed this piece, and hope you'll remember the 'verse well enough to want to read them when they're finally ready!


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